


Outta My Head

by SonictheHedgehog



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Character Study, Gen, I'll add the Reverb tag later when I find what it is it's not coming up, Pre-Canon, Verbal Abuse, near physical abuse, warning tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 10:59:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4345958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonictheHedgehog/pseuds/SonictheHedgehog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Reverb 2015. A character study of sorts for Soul, dealing with confidence, doubt, and self-discovery. From a family freak locked away, to the start of his life towards being the Last Deathscythe. Pre-canon. Thank you to Mr. ProMa for creating the song that I wrote this to and for being my partner. The song's within the chapters' contents, give it a listen! You won't be disappointed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to my betas Kat (Makapedia) and ProMa herself!! You guys really tore this thing apart and made it MUCH better than it was. Thanks SO MUCH! And another big thank you to Mr. ProMa for creating the song that you'll see below - hit play! It's AWESOME.

\-- 

It all started with a sigh. Not a sad sigh by any stretch, but a quick, relieving sigh as he stood on top of the world. Or at least that’s what it felt like after the climb, metaphorically and literally, to get here.   
  
With a deep breath through his nose, he felt the tension he once had bubble into his lungs like some sort of purifying magic, where it was really just inhaling. He never thought something so simple would make the weight on his shoulders vanish so calmly; almost instantly.  
  
And then, his sigh.   
  
And then it was all behind him.

**\--**

  
  
Piano music drifted through the foyer; the dark atmosphere created by closed, black curtains were a cruel irony to his fate complete with the dark, tiled flooring and the supposedly beautiful and happy song being played. Matching the atmosphere, red eyes stared down at the keys, dreary and lack luster; as the young pianist-in-training played, a taller figure with white hair echoing his own simply stood proudly, eyes closed, nodding his head every now and then.   
  
Just a few notes more, and then it was time for the last fadeaway, and the pianist was – hopefully – done for the day.   
  
The thought nearly made him tense up and stop playing. But with a slight pout on his lips in fear, he suppressed the instinctive urge, unwilling to show weakness under the watchful gaze of his father. One wrong move, one slip up, and he’d never hear the end of it.   
  
At the age of twelve, just recently turned, it didn’t really occur him that something was very wrong with everything before him. Rarely allowed outside, he was stuck with his father, mother, brother, and 3 or 4 servants, who weren’t allowed to voice their opinions lest they be yelled at from what Soul had regrettably witnessed. Everything added up and he was never given any light towards the truth of his situation at all.  
  
With one key pressed with just one finger and hold… he was free. What a relief. He sighed, but it wasn’t enough as he awaited his father’s approval and rating. He kept his head down, still staring at the keys, when he heard a hum of thought. He didn’t have to turn around to see his old man nodding.   
  
“Good. I see much improvement in your technique and flow.” His gruff voice, once natural but now saturated with cigar smoke, vibrated in the black room that felt like a prison. “You still need to work on the power of your music, son. Did you forget that’s the reason why you’ve been cramming before your recital?”  
  
He didn’t answer. He didn’t argue, or voice how his father’s words gave him a powerful fire; a powerful spark within his chest. A sort of intensifying inner urge that hurt to feel. No. He let him raise his voice. He let his father’s opinion be the only one known. It was that, or even more yelling…  
  
“You have a month to get your act together, Soul. To perform like an Evans,” he said, his dress shoes clacking against the tile as he walked directly behind him; the white hairs on Soul’s neck stood up on end instantly out of a sense of fear he tried to ignore.   
  
“Where’s your fire from before, son? The fire you had while you played that god awful music?”   
  
The scowl he tried to hide just grew larger, harder to conceal against his father’s words. It was a good thing he was behind him, he thought subconsciously, relief swinging in his heart for a brief second before freezing with the rest of it as the words “god awful music” echoed in his head. Again. And again.   
  
“You need that if you want this recital to succeed, son. To be the Evans you are.”   
  
His lip quivered slightly and jumped at the pat on his shoulder his father gave him, before he sighed stressfully. The stress wasn’t concealed at all. And his heart shook in anger, before he swallowed that down, too.   
  
Click, clack. Click, clack. Formal dress shoes the elder Evans wore all the time in something so informal as their home were as noisy as ever against the black tile. With a softer click, his father opened the door and saw himself out. For just a little while, Soul felt as if he were alone. That he had time to himself. But he knew it was short-lived, as he sighed. He stared at the keys he had wanted to make sing since his favorite music tutor when he was four spoke of how much she loved the piano. Once fun, enticing, and a way for him to let his soul finally, finally speak… Words had always been difficult, but with the piano, he could show the world everything he had always wanted to say. And being able to speak in some form after words had failed him for so long? It was relieving. It was joyous. It was everything to him.

  
But that connection wasn’t there anymore.   
  
He sighed, and with the same lackluster, tired stare he had been giving these keys for the last two years now, he lowered the case and shut it all away for another day.

\--

The best part about belonging to a rich family, as far as Soul was concerned, wasn’t the wealth or the house they lived in, it was the outside -- the courtyard and outer paths. Where he was after practice as Wes rambled on and on about his pen pal Steven. Something like that.

One oak tree per mile gave some nice shade along the tiled pathways, and thanks to it being open, birds had made their homes inside of the hundred-year-old trees. The chirping of busy birds, along with the sound of one of the two fountains were nice ambiance as he walked with his brother. The resemblance between them was striking as it always was – snow white hair and red eyes that shocked almost everyone to see.

“So how was practice today, brother?” Wes asked, formal like he always had been. (It was almost beaten into their heads to be that way 24/7, Soul could vouch for that.) Besides looking up at the taller family member, Soul didn’t say a word at first.  Instead, he glanced back down down at the ground as they walked peacefully along sepia tiling.

“Same old. Missing the fire. Can’t seem to get it,” he finally spoke after a pause.

Silence followed after; not a word from Wes or Soul was spoken for a good while. Nothing but the sound of their footsteps, the birds, and the water as it ran could be heard.

Wes was the one to break the stretched silence with a pat on Soul’s shoulder, making the twelve-year-old gasp. The act had caught him off guard, but it finally got the younger of the brothers to look up, sadness clouding his expression.

“Don’t worry, Soul. You’ll get it in no time,” Wes tried to reassure him, letting go and walking forward. “After all, you wouldn’t want to disappoint Granny, would you?”

For the second time that day, his brother had made his breath falter in a gasp. There was a tiny gasp as he was given a reminder he didn’t need for sure… Their dearly beloved grandmother had decided to fly in for Soul’s recital in a month’s time. She rarely did that for Wes’ recitals, even now as they were transforming into concerts. That train of thought had his heart freezing and his body turning cold as ice. He wasn’t enough. He was never enough.

With Soul stopped in his tracks, the violinist turned around. Soul did not meet his gaze. A good thing; all he would have found find was pity, something that would just make his thoughts worse.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. There was the sound of dress shoes against the floor again; following a rhythm Soul could make out. From that rhythm, he placed other notes in his head, and the weight faded. He continued to compose until Wes’ face was in his own, finally shaking him free from the prison inside his own mind. It was then that Soul’s red eyes met the only eyes that echoed his own that he liked looking into.

“Hey. It’s okay,” he reassured him. “It’ll all be fine. Do you see that tree over there, Soul?”

Red eyes left his brother’s face after his head was turned, looking into the powerful oak tree where his sibling’s gaze had guided him to find a small nest made by two birds. They looked like brothers. Identical. Just like them.

“Those birds are trying to learn how to fly. Just like you.” At his brother’s words, he watched them intently, just in time to see one of them fly away, with no trouble at all.

The one left behind, however, kept jumping and bouncing around the nest, anxious about his first flight. Unsure of it. That bird earned Soul’s attention.

“Someday you, too, will be able to open your wings and fly.” Wes spoke, ignoring the bird that was still trying. “Just like that bird. I did it, Steven did it, Dad and Mom did it… You can, too.”

And then, in an obvious leap of faith, the other bird finally flew, being able to turn in the air and fly where he wanted. It was the first in a long time that Soul was able to smile. There was a curious thing about the two birds and Wes’ metaphor, however…

The birds went in opposite directions. 


	2. Chapter 2

Another day, another practice. Soul sat on the stool, just like before, hands on his knees as he waited for the word to try the next song he’d play at his recital. 

“Again,” spoke his father. And with his hands raised slightly up, Soul, the pianist in training, brought them back down and began playing. It was the most basic song in the world – Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata – rearranged to sound more powerful, lower in tone. 

Still, his glance at the keys was sorrowful as the song resonated with him more than before, as the deeper keys made the stool vibrate just a tad with its tone. 

Because of that, his drive to play was stronger, and he could feel the reason he wanted to play come back from the creative stifling he faced. He let the song take him, feeling the fire he felt from his father’s criticisms turn to passion as he played. He became absorbed; enamored.

It was a change from the higher pitched stuff that would be put in front of him, and he wasn’t prepared for how much it would end up freeing his locked soul, but he welcomed it. Any change was good change if it spared him of the wrath of his father. Words that came out calm, yet stung like daggers. A lie of calm that hid the truth of his anger. 

A few last notes, hold it… and he was done. Hands back on his lap, and…

“Good. Very good, son.” His father praised, yet there seemed to be a desire for something more in his voice. Once again. It wasn’t enough. The fire he had dwindled, and ice took over his heart once again. “You’ve made big changes in your faults. While there’s still room for improvement, you’ve made progress. And it’s better than what you started with.

“Why can’t you be more like your brother?” His father spoke with a sigh, “He understood his instrument and his sheet music right away. _Such_ a prodigy.”

Never enough. That was all he got from his words. He tried. He felt the fire. Yet his judgement hadn’t changed. Soul Evans knew better. Out of the corner of his eye, he got the courage to watch his father strut away from the wall and towards the door.

“Stay here and practice a little more,” he said as his shoes clacked and he stared daggers into his son’s skull. “I want to see further improvement tomorrow.”

A few more clacks, the opening of the door, and his father had left the room. 

Now finally alone after a few clicks behind the door, Soul turned back to the instrument that had wormed its way back into his heart once again, and sighed. He had to take his father’s word that he had made progress. For the sake of his grandma. He took his hands off of his lap and placed them ever so delicately on the white and black keys. Pressing a few, he was reminded of the tune he heard Wes stepping to by accident in the back of his mind… how did it go again…? 1… 2-3. 1…. 2-3. 1-2-3… 1. Something like that. He played the rhythm out on the keys; the keys that resonated with him before. 1… 2-3. 1.. 2-3. 1… 

.. Something felt like it was missing, the twelve-year-old thought. He decided to play with the higher keys. Pressing two, or three… and suddenly, the higher ones resonated with him as well. So strange, considering he didn’t like the other songs he played before, but now it worked… somehow.

He combined the two, a smile falling on his face as he played faster, composing… _creating_. He wished he had sheet music on hand.

What he was making was so full of discord, discord he had to release, and yet–… and yet he–…!

He was no longer alone. With a loud bang that made his music stop in a banging on the keys much more messy and frightened, his father had re-entered. His shoes thumped against the tile, intimidating and frightening as he was almost red in the face with his teeth bared in anger. The albino boy was scared instantly, turning around and almost shaking – he had never seen his father so angry before…!

“STOP! STOP WITH SUCH _HORRIFYING NOISE_!” … Horrifying? He didn’t think of his music as _horrifying_ , he– “SOUL! Don’t you DARE play that music again! You hear me?! You do that at the recital, and you won’t be allowed near a piano EVER AGAIN!” 

His father came closer with his red face and teeth that matched his hair. Soul was afraid… more afraid than he’d ever been before. Once he was reached, his hands were grabbed and he was pulled away from his instrument, the instrument that was finally feeling like it really _was_ his again. The keys were shut away, and he was pushed out of the room. 

“That’s _enough_ for today! You won’t be allowed to practice by yourself anymore. _I_ will be with you for all of your practices from now on, to keep you from wasting your talents!” his father bellowed as he continued to force him out, letting himself out and slamming the door to the foyer shut behind them. The boy’s smile was long gone after that, looking at his shell shocked mother and brother who stood by, passively observing his forced removal. 

They did nothing – frozen in fear like he was. There were many practices after that day… day after day, up to his recital… he was sure, that after that, the piano would never resonate with him again. The enjoyment in it was forever gone. 

\--

The clapping he got after his name was announced for all the world to hear felt undeserved as he stepped onto the stage. Once he bowed, knowing that the crowd wouldn’t be able to see his plea to be free in his eyes, he went to the same stool as ever, and waited for his father’s instruction behind the curtain to play.

Once he received it, he began playing along the assigned list – a peaceful song here, a peaceful song there… now that he was thinking about it, his father had saved the best for last – Moonlight Sonata, with the edits that made him enjoy playing again. At least he’d like one of those songs, he thought as he cringed at the dainty song he was currently playing. 

It was over with faster than he realized, and the clapping felt empty rather than undeserved this time. As if it was out of obligation.. but the show must go on.

It was onto the next song. Slower, but still high pitched – a song made for a duet recomposed for a single person. A song originally for love. His father had a way of twisting music, he realized.

Luckily, that song, too, was over before he knew it. And the clapping was more empty this time than it was the last. Was his father right? Was his music bland and uninteresting because it didn’t have that certain fire to it..? He glanced backstage as the clapping went on. His brother seemed interested, his mother seemed to be wishing him luck… while his father was growing red in the face and enraged. Figured. Next song.

He would’ve tried with his next piece, the third in the set, but he found it difficult. There was no drive. No fire. He guessed he wasn’t interested, but his father wouldn’t take that. The clapping was lessening. He was almost done for, he was sure of it. 

The fear, he found while he was playing, sped up the piece the more and more he thought about it. Would it count as a replacement for the fire he was lacking, his anxiety-ridden mind thought? He would find out when he was done, and it came fast – more clapping than before, and more anger from his father.

The boy swallowed. Nothing was working. Yet again, it was proven he was not enough. His gran was out in the crowd out there, probably positively frightened. He’d try harder with the next piece – it was more up his alley, but not quite there.

Looking over the sheet music intently before he started and during his performance, the boy tried his best to follow it to the letter, not even looking at the keys. He hoped this was enough, that the crowd would love it, blissfully unaware that he had missed about five notes along the way by a good margin.

When he realized recovering wasn’t easy, the shock that he messed up that badly and what his father and granny thought hung heavy on his mind, and he almost missed even more notes. He was sure the people that clapped there were the people his father considered to be “ignorant with no music taste.” Damnit.

But now it was time for his trump card. Moonlight Sonata. The only song on the list he was sure he could play right… and within the first five notes, he was hooked again. The piano and him were in perfect sync… 

And his father’s demands were left at the door, leading to no encore in sight. 

\--

“HOW _DARE YOU_ , SOUL EVANS. HOW. _DARE_. YOU!” His father shouted at him within mere seconds after he walked backstage, “Playing that accursed dark music at your recital. In front of _that_ crowd, in front of your _grandmother!_ ” 

The boy visibly retreated into himself, hands in his pockets and shoulders raised as he looked into red eyes that held no love, only spite. 

“I should’ve known to delay your recital for the next month or so and let this phase of yours run its course so you could play properly and not drift off into that _dark aesthetic_ of yours.” 

With every word, the fire in his chest came back, but it was different from the last few times. It wasn’t the fire he could channel into his music, that _passion_ he had when he played his discorded songs… 

“I suppose I should be grateful you kept your even _more_ horrifying mouth shut. Those teeth.. Imagine what you could’ve done if you showed that to the audience! They’d run in fear!” 

The embers roared within his heart at each and every knife thrown at his self-worth. Deep within him, there was a voice, speaking to him, coaxing him. Fight back, it said. But how could he? His lip quivered as he debated it. _How_ to do it… 

“I’m very disappointed in you, Soul,” his father continued more calmly, a dagger in disguise once again, “I had faith that you could be the next great Evans musician, but _unfortunately_ , I was very wrong. As you know, I am a man of my word. _All of them_. Your career with the piano ends here, son. Think of another instrument you wish to learn, because you won’t play piano ever again from here on out.” 

The voice that wanted to rebel grew with every word he said -- next Evans musician? Yeah, right. That dubious honor already belonged to Wes… but as soon as he stated that the instrument that had resonated with him was being taken away… it flew out like a geiser. No more internal backtalk. It had now become external. 

“WHAT?! You can’t do that!” he shouted back, his love for his instrument apparent in his voice, “The piano was the only instrument I was able to play properly! You know that!”

“We’ll find you something else. Guitar, perhaps. But you’ve lost your right to the piano. You can’t disgrace your ancestor’s talents with that _god awful_ music! You’ll ruin our honor. Our fame!” 

“Is that all you care about? Our fame?!” Soul snarled back after years and years of keeping it in. “What about all that crap about music being the window to the soul, or using it to say things you can’t?! Music is an art in the eye of its creator. That’s what I was taught.  Was _everything_ I was taught a _lie?!_ ”

“There was a reason we fired that tutor of yours, Soul.” His father sighed as he spoke, his anger manipulating the wrinkles of age he was gaining on his face. And it was age, not the stress he was giving his father, he had to re-teach himself. “She was filling your brain with _hogwash_ like that!”

“Cut the act, old man,” he growled, catching his father off guard. If he thought that was startling, nothing would prepare him for what came next. “Just say it’s shit. I don’t need this damn baby talk anymore!” 

There were gasps all around him at his swears, all these fancy folk he always secretly felt like he didn’t belong with. Wes didn’t seem to mind, but he looked just as shocked as everyone else (Kind of,) but almost everyone had their mouths covered in shock. Not like he cared about that anymore. And his father…? His face was growing more red with every passing second. 

“... My boy,” he grumbled, voice ruined by one too many cigars, growling down and towering over his twelve year old child. “Is it your goal to continue to disappoint me? Because you keep on managing just that.”

The sharp teeth his father always and forever didn’t want to see flashed in Soul’s scowl, red eyes burning with his anger, his _rage._ He’d enough. He was done with being chewed to pieces and told what to do. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone being escorted backstage, but he didn’t care. He was too busy breathing in for his next few words, pulling his arm next to his head -- 

 

**_“_ I DON’T GIVE A _DAMN_ WHAT YOU THINK OF ME!! _”_** he yelled, loud enough for everyone to hear as he swung his arm out across his chest swiftly. He thought of how he wanted the words to cut his father just as his words had cut him. The result was a metallic sound, making him think that he hit something in the process, but… his arm felt stiff. Wide eyes and shocked faces had warped into pale, longer ones; as if he had threatened his father’s life… What happened? What did he do? 

 

“... Soul..” A familiar voice spoke to him, and he had a chill go down his spine. He turned his head to the left, and yes. Sure enough, there was his precious Granny; standing there with her hair the color of her pearls, wrinkly hands shaking, her face just as shocked as the people around her… There was something black out of the corner of Soul’s eye, too. Shimmering in the lights backstage… Just a glance and--... Oh, _god_ … 

 

_There was a blade of some kind in place of his arm._

 

He was stunned… but not as stunned as they were. How was this possible, how could he have changed his arm--...?

 

“... Soul.” His father spoke once more, and he listened and turned his head, his bloodless face looking up at judgmental, still angry eyes. What had he done wrong..? He didn’t know what this was…!  

 

“What in the devil’s name _are you_ …”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Things became much more strict in the Evans household from then on. To outsiders, little had changed, but to those involved, their cage had shrunken smaller and smaller as they fell under more scrutiny. His father still tried his best to cure him of his “creepy” discordant sound, still critiqued him harshly as he tried to fight to play his instrument while taking up the guitar at the same time. Nobody would speak to him, other than his disappointed and horrified control freak of a father, and Soul could understand why. It was a shock, even to him, to find out he was some sort of blade-summoning _demon_ …

No one had any idea of what he was yet. His brother reassured him that he had an idea, but it was a secret until he was sure. Like his mouth and his shark teeth, he was told to keep whatever powers he had at bay, or there’d be hell to pay.

Weeks had passed after his disastrous recital, and dinner was over for the day. He sat on his bed; thinking, harping on the shocking revelation almost his entire family had to witness. A couple of knocks came to his door.

“I’m sorry, Soul.. do you mind if I come talk to you a little?” his mother spoke as she peaked her way in; her long blonde hair, almost platinum, draped over her shoulder as she tilted her back through the crack. The young boy gave a nod, and she went ahead and sat besides him on the bed, springs creaking. Besides that, silence continued. His alarm clock could be heard ticking and tocking in place of their voices, the parent in the room brushing her own hair out of her eyes as she thought of what to say.

“... Are you feeling okay?” She decided on, the simplest approach.

Her son simply looked up at her, keeping his dirty, freaky mouth shut and his voice to himself.

It was torture for his mother, because even without his voice, she could see the sadness and fear in his eyes. Without hesitation, she wrapped an arm around her son, and Soul went back to resting his forehead against his kneecaps.

“It’ll be alright… your brother’s following his lead on what you are. … And so am I. But please don’t tell your father.. Though, I suppose I don’t have to tell you that, hm?” Her attempt at easing the mood as she rubbed her son’s back didn’t pan out like she had hoped. There was no budge, and anxiety formed within him that both his mother and brother would be yelled at, just as he was.

“Please don’t, Mom,” he mumbled against his legs.

“Don’t--? Don’t help you? Soul, you--.”

“He’ll just shout at you like he did me. Don’t. Please.”

His mother’s rubbing on his back stopped cold, just like her heart. The difficulty and the horrible state of the situation came back to light against her maternal instincts, and once again she was stuck thinking on what she’d do next. Soul didn’t want her involved, and for good reason.. but she couldn’t just sit here. She couldn’t do _nothing_ …

Somehow, luck heard her plea, for right on time, the door to Soul’s room opened once again, revealing the white hair and red eyes of Wes with a smile on his face.

“Hey, little brother,” Wes said calmly, watching as Soul finally raised his head. “What if I said my lead panned out?”

Soul uncurled from his purgatory on his bed almost instantly, even standing up at the smallest shred of hope. He hoped this wasn’t Wes’ idea of a cruel joke. “Depends on what the lead is. Some gossip? Some insult a neighbor threw at me ‘cause they heard through whispers I’m the family freak?”

His mother and brother did their best to hide the pain his view on his situation gave them. Wes fought to keep his grin on his face.

“Nope. Trust me, Soul. This lead is legitimate. And you certainly got lucky,” the violinist clarified, leaving the smaller child to raise an eyebrow. “I know somebody like you, who’s in town today just to make sure you’re alright.”

\--

Once again, the confused and sheltered pianist found himself outside their large mansion, enjoying the grass, leaves of pure green, and the sounds of the birds that were left around their manor, preparing for their flight south for Winter.

Instead of the courtyard, just within the gates to their estate, Soul was able to meet the friend Wes had spoken of in the front yard. As park-like as it was, he was sadly still within the fence of the Evans estate, but his feeling of being locked away was replaced by wonder, all because of Wes’ treasure pen pal’s appearance.

He had black hair and red eyes…. Eyes that matched his own. Teeth that matched his own, too, he noticed when his brother’s friend smiled as they approached.

Now he understood why Wes was so certain that he’d have the answers Soul sought. The twelve-year-old became mesmerized by the stranger instantly, hoping he’d really hold the key to the truth.

The two out of the four people present that were different than the violinist and the mother stared into each other’s eyes, studying one another as they waited for Wes’ cue to speak. Not usually a line of action for the stranger when it came to meeting new people, but it was for Soul; the patient boy trained to wait for an introduction before talking.

“Soul, this is my pen pal, Steven Ek. Or, as his Stage Name goes, Wayward Oaken Blade.”

The pianist’s memory didn’t take too long to jog itself back into place, the gear simply labeled ‘Wes’ pen pal’ clicked into the place it belonged thanks to having a face to associate it with. His smile returned for an instant once he had done his part to recall him. “Oh, right! This guy. The one that was at a special school in Nevada?”

“That’s him alright! Good memory,” Wes spoke, wrapping an arm around his friend, not even intimidated by his mouth and eyes. “But that special school has a name that I didn’t tell you --  It’s called the DWMA.”

It was the first time Soul ever heard that acronym, but it would very obviously not be his last. His eyes almost shone as the words rolled off of Wes’ tongue, and the newly-found blade-spawning boy stared at Wes’ friend with his mouth hanging open. There was just _something_ in the way that Steven nodded and grinned at him, looking down… welcomingly. It… gave him hope. That maybe… maybe there was something for him at this school..? A voice in the back of his mind told him it was childish to be hopeful for such a thing; it could easily crush it and take him for a ride of it wanted to.

“Yeah,” Steven spoke, flashing the grin to the older of the Evans’ before glancing back down at the smaller one. “Your lil’ bro would fit right in.”

His hope fought against the voice at that instance, rushing past it. He’d fit in? Was he for real?

“Then would _you_ like to do the honors to tell him about the great Death Weapon Meister Academy?” Wes teased. Death Weapon Meister…?

“Gladly,” Steven said cheerfully before kneeling to his eye level. If this was his pops, Soul would’ve probably seethed, at least internally. But this was Steven. The Steven who looked just like him. The Steven who was welcoming and calm.

His heavy heart lifted. Were great things about to head his direction?

“The Death Weapon Meister Academy is a great school,” Steven began, “It’s where people like you and me are educated to control our transformations, and to discover what our calling is.”

The idea of a calling that wasn’t music made the young, dazzled Soul backpedal just a little from this new idea. Was there even such a thing for him?

“Everyone there comes from all kinds of different walks of life. I’m what regular schools would call a foreign exchange student, for example, but nope. At the DWMA, I’m just another weapon. No one cares where I came from.”

A place where no one cared where you came from? As memories and past voices he had overheard at Wes’ concerts of “isn’t that his brother?” “Isn’t that the youngest Evans boy?” “I’d love to hear the next great Evans play.” came to his mind, that sounded like _heaven_.

With every other word from Steven’s mouth, the new weapon was being sold on this “DWMA,” hook, line, and sinker.

“And while some of the classes _are_ perilous--” That word in the midst of this heaven for the twelve-year-old didn’t exactly fit. What could possibly be perilous at a school like this? “--there are classes that just teach you how to accept what you are, and to just _live_ with your abilities. To _control_ them.”

Everything sounded like heaven to Soul Evans. A place where his origins meant nothing? Learning to control his weird blade-arm thing? Where his freakish powers would be accepted? Maybe? He liked the sound of that, but… he just couldn’t believe it just yet.

“Wes. You said your bro was a weapon, right?” Steven asked the white-haired pianist behind him.

“Yep.” And by just moving his head to the left, he watched as Wes sat down on the bench under the tree while he shrugged. “Mom and I have no idea what weapon he is. It startled everyone. And let’s just say I’m lucky that I got to tell you anything.”

“Mm,” Steven simply replied. Was that lack of communication _fine_ for Wes? It seemed like they understood each other.. was it a DWMA thing? Or a teenager thing? His thoughts were ruined as Steven abruptly stood up, smacking his kneecaps with his hands.

“Well! Let’s do it!” He cheered with a smile as he danced around the twelve year old. Soul watched him; an eyebrow raised, confused as all get out. “The only way to find out is to see it, so let’s see it! Show me your blade, Soul!”

The sentence caught him off guard. Was that something you _normally_ said to twelve-year-old kids, even a freak like him?! Steven, now in front of both Soul and Wes, left the tween turning to look to his older brother with a bewildered look.

Again, Wes simply shrugged, still sporting the calm and collected smirk he was known for.

Well, Soul guessed this must be one of those DWMA things that Wes never spoke about. Even with that assumed and accepted, there was just one large problem that made his throat and pores threaten to close and sweat.

“... How?”

“How what? How do you transform?”

The new weapon meekly nodded.

“Easy one,” Steven replied, and with his sudden straight posture despite his baggy and sagging pants, Soul already felt like he was at school, learning something new. “All you’ve gotta do is imagine the sleeping blade within you.”

Imagine the sleeping blade within him…? With widened eyes, he suddenly realized a few more freakish things in his life made sense…! When he’d found out about his “weapon” side, he’d imagined somehow cutting his old man just as his words had cut him… he meant to return the favor _verbally,_ not _literally_ … but at least _this_ freakish thing was getting closure.

All he had to do now, he decided, was to just channel it like he did last time… right? That’d work, right? He closed his eyes and tried to think the thoughts he did before… wanting something to _cut_ with. To _slice_ with. He wanted a _blade._ The red and black blade from before--

Okay, maybe not the _same_ blade from before, he still wanted control over his arm. A blade. A red and black blade _smaller than before._ Something he could _cut_ with still all the same. A blade. He wanted a _blade._ A blade from _within himself_ \--...

_Shing. And there was that noise again..._

He opened his eyes and looked at himself, and wouldn’t you know it. There it was, his elbow turned into a smaller version of the red and black blade from before. Moving it around as he could still control his forearm, he heard Wes give Steven a “Yup” before his pen pal gasped loudly. Did he do something wrong?

The idea that he did something wrong was wrong itself, it seems, as Steven stood there with his mouth hanging open and a hand near it. Almost like he was going to cover his hung open mouth or shut it himself.

“Even Granny was surprised,” Wes spoke again from behind the blade-bearing boy.

“I-... I can see why!” Steven finally sputtered out, apparently speechless. But Soul was still confused and lost, the amount of closure he needed lessening and expanding almost with every sentence. “How-- How was your family just _carrying_ this gene all this time?!”

Wes’ shrug was audible with his “Iunno” of a grunt. But what was so shocking about his specific ‘gene’? What did genes have to do with anything? Soul stared at Steven, waiting for an answer, but he’d be waiting for some time. The pen pal of Wes Evans was still at a loss for words at the sight before him. And then, just when suspense’s hand had a firm grip on the little blade boy’s heart, he finally got his answer.

“Soul, you’re a _scythe_ …” the elder weapon finally spat out, eyes shining in wonder and excitement. He was a scythe? Wasn’t that the weapon that the grim reaper used to end people’s lives? How fitting and dark for him. “Scythes are so rare…! How did you--...?”

It was Soul’s turn to shrug, but having someone gasp and be amazed at something he did, something his father has criticised and hidden.. Once again, Steven joined him down below, squatting to his eye level and seeing red eyes and sharp teeth like his own, another thing his dad would have him hide, felt so uplifting… Was this person a scythe as well?

“What weapon are you, then?” he asked so abruptly that he decided to pat himself on the back mentally for being so brave. The fact that he rarely spoke out like that ever was lost on Steven, who just smiled and backed off, closing his eyes and… oh, he was focusing like Soul had! And in a simple light shining from his right arm…

“I’m a battle axe.” There it was -- the blade of the axe in place of his entire arm. Just like when Soul called his own blade…

“Do you wanna know how many battle axes are in the DWMA, Soul?” Steven asked him before answering his own question. “About twenty. And do you wanna know how many scythes?

“ _Only 3_. 4, if you count Death Scythe. Lord Death’s current weapon.” Steven’s answer shocked Soul to his core. That wasn’t very many at all! No wonder it was such a shock that he was a scythe…  the battle axe laughed at his face, putting his blade away with another change. “Scythes are _very rare_. You’d be an amazing asset to the DWMA.”

He would be an asset? That… that was unheard of! He had only ever been a hypothetical asset to the Evans lineage of musicians, an idea that grew less and less possible with every day in Soul’s mind. He-- wait a minute…

“Did you just say Lord _Death?_ ” Soul once again spoke uncharacteristically out of turn. Man, he was on fire with that today. It wasn’t every day he felt freedom such as this…

The battle axe was frozen in the consequences of his tiny slip-up to be sure, before answering Soul finally. “Yyyeeaahhh…?”

“What do you mean, _Lord Death?_ ” He had come this far - he may as well let everything he wanted to say just fly out, now, complete with slightly-angry-look-on-his-face.

“Heee….” the pen pal stammered as he rubbed the back of his head, “Uh… You know the Grim Reaper and all that?”

“Yeah…?”

“... He’s real.” It was an award winning start from Steven, to be sure. “And he’s our headmaster. … You’d not only be an asset, Soul? But if you entered the fighting classes, the EAT classes, you’d be given a partner -- a partner who can _wield_ and use your weapon form, and the two of you would be given a goal. A big goal. It’s what you’re there in the EAT class to accomplish, actually.

“To make you into a _Deathscythe_.” Steven’s words both made the boy more excited, and confused him. He could swear he used the word “deathscythe” as a name for somebody just now, but it was also a weapon? He opened his mouth to speak his mind, he had the chance to and _damnit_ he was going to _use it_ , but Steven did it first.

“A Deathscythe is the complete form for weapons like you and me.” He continued, leaving the younger weapon entranced in interest once again. A _complete_ form…?

“A Deathscythe is _also_ Lord Death’s _prefered_ weapon. Sure, any weapon can become a Deathscythe, but he prefers to use… _Scythe_ -Deathscythes. If that makes any sense.” The battle axe laughed as he rubbed the back of his neck. He prefered to use actual scythes that were complete? Is that what Steven was getting at? It was still used as a name earlier, and he still had to ask about that.. but the thought of him, as a scythe, being used by the terrifying Grim Reaper… such a badass, cool, _freakish_ image of him in the future…

That it made him grin from ear to ear picturing his father’s face at the fact that one of his sons had such a paranormal fate. That settled it. The DWMA was an escape from this musical hell, an escape he wanted more than anything.

“That sounds _awesome_ ,” he said almost sinisterly, “But you used Deathscythe as a name earlier?”

“Hm?” Steven questioned, forgetting about his previous actions for a second, “Oh, right. Death Scythe is a Stage Name that the Deathscythe currently being used by Lord Death goes by for the sake of tradition. The current Deathscythe he’s using is an actual scythe. He’s never reassigned the guy, though that might have to do with the fact that his kid lives in Death City more than his weapon preference.”

With that cleared up, Soul didn’t speak any further, still smiling as he thought of the option before him.

It all sounded too good to be true. A place where he could just be himself, surrounded by other freaks like him, living far away from the god forsaken musical prison he was currently in, with a fate that if he succeeded at fulfilling, would make his father die on the spot once he heard his son was now a Deathscythe. Too good to be true or not, Soul Evans’ mind was made up. He grinned sinisterly, tempted to laugh to match, but he had news to deliver. He got his thank yous to Steven and Wes and goodbyes to them all over with as quick as possible, running back into the estate.

His grin was unfading as he barged through the door to his dad’s study, causing his father to turn around quickly enough to leave a trail of cigar smoke to tell the story of how he moved. The old man’s face was worth the fear of his reaction -- one eye nearly bulging out of his head in shock that his son had acted out so hugely, his anger already prepared. And with it already out in the open and ready, his heart going faster than it ever had before in his ears and threatening to go out of his chest, the pianist decided to declare the big news to big bad Daddy Evans.

“I want to enroll in the DWMA.”

\--

The family meeting that came afterwards made all of his previous shouting sessions with Daddy Evans look like practically calm by comparison. Regardless, Soul didn’t regret his decision.

He was sitting at the dinner table staring at his reflection after it being freshly cleaned, mother, brother, and him, his father walking around the three of them in a circle. All it took was one look at all of them, and it was clear. He wasn’t the only one yelled at for his interest in the school.

In his lap, his hands were balled up tight, nearly white knuckled and it wasn’t enough for his anger to be vented out completely. His face warped with it. Not that his father cared at this point.

“Now.” His father began after give-or-take 15 minutes of tormented silence, Soul wasn’t really keeping track. “You are all gathered here today because obviously you three need to get your _facts straight_.”

Soul continued staring at his hands as his fists shook with how hard he had them balled up, brows furrowed. It was a good thing his mind wasn’t on his form, but the school, or he would’ve probably stabbed his seat with a blade or two.

“ _There is no such thing as the DWMA._ You have all been tricked by this ‘Steven’ Wes has been contacting, and since he’s a swindler, he will not be contacted any longer.”

All it took was once glance over at Wes, and he could tell that his brother had been yelled at to never contact his close friend again. Red eyes down, hands off the table; otherwise his chin would be in his hand…

“As to what we all witnessed, the blade Soul brandished in front of me was just that. A blade he took out against me. Not a transformation, _not_ anything _else_.”

He knew better than that. The anger within him continued to boil his blood fiercer than ever, leading him to distract himself with a glance to his mother. Her eyes were downcast, just like his brother,  but like Soul, her eyes were on her lap. On her hands. She wasn’t as angry or at a loss like he and his brother were. Instead, she looked… betrayed? Hurt? .. As if she was telling herself she was useless? That was just Soul’s guess, but now things felt worse.

“I want these ideas that Soul is a so called ‘demon weapon’ to stop. There is no such thing, and _there is no DWMA._ ”

 _Oh,_ how he wished his dad would shut the hell up. That he’d realize that there were things outside of music and practices and being rich.

“You will not speak of any of these things to _anyone_ you speak to outside of the family.”

But as the debatably overweight man of the house continued to ramble and demand things of the three of them, the odds of him coming to any sort of epiphany about their situation were slim. Very, _very_ slim.

“Have I made myself clear?” He turned to his wife, her gaze meeting his for just 3 silent seconds. And as she looked back down, Soul was sure that he had just learned more about his parents’ relationship than he had ever known his entire life. His father raised his white eyebrows, and his mother finally nodded meekly. And with that, his attention was on Wes, who defeatedly nodded, his eyes closed as he did so. Soul knew that look; he had seen arguments between Wes and their dad about what he played at times. His hand might not be holding his chin like he usually would, but if he imagined it, the expressions were exactly the same.

And then, in an abrupt motion, white brows diagonally positioned to show more anger than Wes and his mother ever got, it was Soul’s turn. He himself furrowed his brows and clenched his fists on his lap, unknowingly refusing to nod. Steven’s words came back to his mind, thinking on what the DWMA could offer him. That place _had_ to exist, he knew it had to. He and Wes couldn’t have hallucinated Steven’s battle axe arm together… Soul couldn’t be insane…

He looked up to find his father’s judging gaze hardening and his mouth moving further in his anger. He could feel the pressure to be the third of the trio under his father’s thumb to nod, and he didn’t want to. He wanted to bare his teeth and bark back and run out of the house, straight to Nevada.

… But Soul wasn’t an idiot. He nodded once, twice -- three times before moving his gaze away. His father voiced his approval as the pianist stared down at the floor besides his seat. It wasn’t behind his back, but he crossed his fingers.

“This was a wonderful talk, everyone. I look forward to dinner later tonight.” His father hummed happily, as if his indirect words were enough to dismiss them. His mother got up and headed to the kitchen to start on said dinner, and Wes sighed and left through a different doorway than his father did…

Soul didn’t move. He sat. Alone. In the dining room. Just like when he sat alone with the piano when he decided to learn it. When he smiled and enjoyed it. Just like when he sat alone several days ago, sighing as he shut the keys away. The keys he no longer enjoyed, that called to him like a lover wondering where their other half went.

Sadly, he was the other half who’s fire for the relationship was dwindling. And there was a new love on the horizon -- in the form of himself, as a scythe. He stood in a dark place, on a dark mountain. Wobbling in fear as the mountain was being split into two.

The tiny ledge he was on shook, the mountain’s separate halves on either side of him as he panicked.

He looked over to his right, seeing a girl with long black hair and a keyboard dress reaching for him, a hand over her heart…

And to his left, behind him, someone who looked like him.

Someone with white hair and red eyes, his hand out towards Soul with a look in his eyes that told him that he knew what he had been going through. Not out of sympathy, but experience.

Before he could study the man more, the ground shook and his ledge between piano woman and scene-hair guy fell farther and farther away from each of them, and he felt pressured to make his choice.

All it took to make it was one look back at the mute piano woman. Her face spoke of a longing to be with him, but in her eyes shined a prison. A prison that reminded him of the words of his father.

He looked back around to the man who knew him, and his eyes spoke of freedom. Reassurance. And when the image of who he might be as a Deathscythe, cool and freakish and _himself_ , smiled at him as he continued to offer his hand, his decision had been made.

Hands balled up tight once again in his lap, Soul finally bared his teeth. His red eyes burned bright with a determined flame. The spark. He wasn’t going to let this go easily.

He’d had enough of sighing and letting his father have his way.

The DWMA was his escape, the home that he never had here. An environment where he could be who he wanted to be, weirdness and all.

The bird had learned how to fly, and he wasn’t going to adjust his course to what he didn’t want.

Soul was _going_ to go to that Academy -- even if he had to fight tooth, nail, and maybe even _scythe blade_ for it.


	4. Chapter 4

Slowly but steadily, the scythe realized that there had to be some kind of retaliation to get what he wanted. There could be no more lie down and take it. It was time to assert himself. And if he was honest, it was long past time. After seeing how it wasn’t just him, Wes and his mother had been imprisoned by their father’s image of his family as well, he now understood he had to take action. Otherwise, it would be the same old shit, different day.

And his target for rebellion today was his piano practice.

His father had stuck to his word. Every practice since his recital and his practice before then, he had never been alone in the foyer with the piano. It was perfect.

Now that he knew the sheet music for a smaller recital, there was a pattern he was noticing. His father was avoiding the musical keys and literal keys on the piano that he had used in his prefered music, trying to avoid him playing that “god awful, horrifying” music again. It was sickening just how controlling their father was. The entire reason he wasn’t allowed to play it was because it didn’t fit the public image.

Be it at home, or at his own recital, he wasn’t allowed to play what he wanted. But he would change that. After studying the sheet music and coming up with his gameplan, the door behind him was opened with a creak. Click, clack. Click. Clack.

Soul looked over to his right, and there was his father. He placed the sheet music on the piano, open and ready, waiting for his practice to begin proper.

“Did you follow my instructions and study your set for your recital?”

“Yes,” Soul answered simply. The sorrowful and silenced look he normally had during his practices wasn’t here today, unknownst to his old man. His father hummed and walked around the room. Click, clack. Click, clack. Was he using this to get under his skin or something? It wasn’t going to work. He had already decided on his tactic to fight against the reign of his father, and he wasn’t going to stop just because he was being walked around and tested for patience levels. In fact…

“And I had some ideas for the pieces. Particularly the first and second.”

“Oh?” Spoke his father, his face twitching slightly in interest and the ghost of a smile that reeked of arrogance at the idea that he was getting his way. “And what would that be?”

The boy scooched forward on the piano stool, pulling the sheet music down and commentating on a few notes and areas he wanted rearranged. Naturally, most of the suggestions were turned down, but enough were agreed on unknowingly that his plan should still work well enough. The boy smiled at his father, and he turned back around and placed his hands on the keys.

“Well, son,” His father spoke with a pat on Soul’s shoulder, “let’s hear your adjustments, shall we?”

The scythe simply nodded, keeping his smile on his face as he began playing. At the start, nothing seemed to have changed. The piece retained its relaxing yet not-too-dark atmosphere, and his father smiled approvingly with his eyes closed as he listened. Good. He was probably going to be told how much he had improved, and there were two directions Soul could take this from there. He could be truthful and tell his father that his music had gotten better just because he was enjoying it, or keep it to himself and enjoy his secret victory of fighting fire with fire.

That was until his changes came through at last after the intro. The music grew darker; for Soul’s usual, it was just a light sprinkling, and he felt the atmosphere change as his father’s face fell.

His changes persisted, and although the music was fun for him to play, just as he was getting to the part he liked the most… his father slammed his hand on the top of the piano, causing his son to jump up slightly and the piano to cry out in pain with the keys he hit on accident.

 **“Absolutely not,”** was all his father said, and Soul reeled back just a bit in his head. But the will that had been born with the idea of his way out wouldn’t go back that easily. That part of himself could run backwards, away from the situation, all it wanted. But now that his plan to enjoy music again had backfired, the third idea was on the playing field.

“... Absolutely not _what?_ ” Soul’s will mixed with a healthy dose of fear let the words slip like a bar of soap amongst their fighting.

“Your changes. Don’t act like I don’t get what you’re trying to do, Soul Evans.” He glowered over him as he spoke. “You’re trying to slip your nasty music into your recital, and I won’t let you embarrass me like that again.”

“But it’s what I want to _play_ , what I learned piano _for_. _Someone_ out there’s got to like it. Give it a chance?”

“I already have. And as a musical professional and a member of this legendary musical family, son? _No one_ with proper musical taste will like it.”

Soul’s teeth were bared again, earning him a growl of anger from his father. He didn’t care.

“Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean anyone else won’t!” he shouted as he finally raised his voice to his father, “Just give it a chance!”

“I _already have!_ ” His father yelled back without any hesitation whatsoever. To Soul, he figured that said a lot. “The way your audience reacted to your little off-the-rails stunt at that recital said _enough_ to me that your music has _no hope_ of succeeding in the industry and helping your name be written down as another great Evans musician! Don’t you **_want that?!_** ”

 ** _“NOT AFTER THE WAY YOU’VE TREATED ME I DON’T!”_** After his shout, Soul found himself breathing deeply as he calmed down fast and realized exactly what he had done.

He realized he had sewn more scrutiny from his father into his fate. A red, angry face towered over him as his own father struggled to calm himself. Soul’s will and fire to fight back took a few steps backwards as he looked his father in the eye, and as his father took a deep breath in through his nose, he cringed in fear.  Words shrouded with a veil of stressed calm bit into him with all the venom his father could muster.

“If that’s what you want, Soul Evans, then get off the piano. It is not for you anymore.” With those words, Soul could feel his heart drop into his stomach, could feel the ice as it ran through his veins. Was this the true cost of fighting for what he wanted? Having his one passion pulled away from him? He wasn’t even close to done fighting for his cause yet… Well, if he was honest with himself, as he watched his father shut away the black and white keys, his passion was synonymous with being locked under his father’s control. Would he really want a passion that reminded him of that?

His will took its steps back forward as he walked out of the room to have the door shut behind him with a loud, echoing slam. What he wanted was to be in a place where he was accepted. Where he could play the piano again if he so decided to. Like the DWMA.

His resolve found once again despite the dent from before, he was going to press on. Whatever the outcome was of this, he was going to _win it_.

—

After he was barred from practicing piano, if not on indefinite hiatus, things got a lot less busy around the Evans household for Soul, and a lot more quiet, but not any less stressful. while he might’ve enjoyed his newfound free time, he was still given death glares from his father, and he was given more of a look into his mother and brother’s lives than ever before.

As he tapped his fingers against the dinner table that might have gathered dust from very rare use if not for their servants, he sighed just before his solitude was broken by the presence of his father. His dress shoes clacked as he entered as always against the hardwood flooring, and Soul couldn’t help his eyebrows from furrowing at the sight of him, the sight of the man who was trapping his son in a cage. How many things would be taken from him before he could finally have his get away? Needless to say, even if his father had seen his glare, it didn’t matter; he got a glare for just sitting there and listening to his iPod anyway as his father opened the fridge and fetched himself a drink.

As if he had more problems than his son, blissfully unaware of the damages he had caused everyone, he sighed as if he had a horrible day. Soul knew better. It was Wednesday. Wednesday was Wes’ practice day. Good old Wes. Never-Does-Anything-Wrong Wes. His day had been _so_ great, being locked in a room with the prodigy all day, instead of the kid who could never get anything right. His anger only grew with his inner hatred towards himself, and even further when his father ditched the faux upset attitude for a genuine Proud Father Smile.

Ugh. He felt like he was going to puke then and there.

“Busy day,” he spoke before taking a sip of his wine. “Wes and I have been working hard on making his first tour a good one. What he’ll be playing will absolutely wow the crowd. Hopefully one day he’ll end up on stage with that Sterling woman!” Soul made a mental note after his dad’s comment to throw out all of his music by her. Stat. But other than, there was no reaction from his younger son. He didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. He was sure that his father behind him was well aware that he had no comment, and was a bit perturbed by his son’s decision to stay quiet when he was talking, and that he’d act on it soon enough.

“... Aren’t you happy for your older brother?” And there was said acting on Soul’s silent treatment.

He knew it was wrong, not talking to his father and being jealous of his brother to this degree, but how could he not? Sure, Wes was under just as pressure as much pressure as Soul was, but at least _he enjoyed it_. At least he wasn’t being denied his wanted musical path or anything. Unlike Soul himself. All he managed to settle on to give his dad as little attention and satisfaction as he could help, and to say that he was happy for his brother, was a silent nod of the head with a ghost of a smile that went away instantly. Ice threatened to bleed into his veins afterwards as he darted his gaze back to the table he was sitting at, knowing his father well enough to know that he wouldn’t be satisfied with that and would pester him further. Maybe this was a bad idea.

The footsteps of his father’s dress shoes against the flooring, slow and intimidating as ever proved that thought true. He had made a wrong move here. A very wrong move.

The table groaned against his father’s arms as he leaned against it, causing Soul to once again backpedal in the form of moving away from his father’s gaze. He knew what this was going to be. Some controlling garbage about how he didn’t understand where his attitude was coming from, and how disrespectful it was. Usual parents garbage. It was so cliche at its core that sometimes he wondered if this was where every movie plot with bad parents got it from. His experience was taken further than those kids ever had it, however. Up to eleven; and fighting for his way out was proving difficult. But he couldn’t just give up now, even with his father (sorta literally) breathing down his neck about simple things. He just _couldn’t_.

“Listen. _You_ are the one who gave up your piano practices. Don’t act like you didn’t have a choice.”

“I _didn’t_ have a choice,” Soul blurted out in a low hush without even thinking. It startled even himself how fast that came out in response, but as he kept telling himself, he couldn’t put his tail between his legs and reluctantly stay in this poisonous pack. He had to keep fighting. And with that still in his mind, he kept finding the strength to continue, renewing it every time it dwindled. “I wasn’t enjoying it anymore, and I wasn’t being allowed to play what I wanted.”

Another groan from the table as the elder man’s arms pulled away from the surface and instead his weight was placed in a chair nearby, the cushion hissed air out as he sat down.

“Sometimes we can’t get what we want in life, Soul,” his father whispered to him, not helping his feeling of jealousy and anguish what so ever. If the man weren’t so close, he’d show his shark-like pearly whites, but doing that with his father near his ear would be suicide. “You’ve just gotta make due with what you have. And I gave you _everything_. I gave you tutors, I gave you home-school music teachers, I gave you my own personal lessons and sets for your recitals. I did all I could to make you into the next great piano player, and _this_ is how you repay me? By throwing it all away because you can’t play what you want?”

The weapon lightly threw his hand against the table, raising his voice ever so slightly. “ _Yes_ , because _I don’t care_ about your opinion that playing what you want is bullshit, _it’s what I want to play_.”

“It’s not an opinion when that’s how the industry works for pianists like you, son,” his father had the audacity to _laugh_ out.

“Really now,” was Soul’s deadpan response as he was slowly pulling away the veil covering his rage as their conversation went on.

“Yes. You’ll be hired by bands and performers to play what _they_ want you to. Not what _you_ want to.”

“That’s not how _you_ got known in the industry,” Soul spoke, no hesitation, no remorse, and no fear to his words, and he watched his father’s face crinkle in the wake of his tugged heartstrings. His son raised an eyebrow. Would he realize how backwards his views were now?

The elder pianist’s lip quivered at the shocking words from his son, and his son watched ever so interested in what his next move would be. Was he going to be shouted at? Was Soul going to have to tell him how many pianists have lead their own musical careers just fine, citing his own father’s early work as example? Apparently not, for Daddy Evans balled up a shaky fist and lightly banged it upon the top of the table.

“I’ve had enough of your lip for one day,” he said after finally standing up and walking out of the room. Soul kept his eyes on him, watching as he walked out. He had no idea what to make of that situation… Just what kind of nerve had he hit by mentioning his own musical past? Obviously there was more to it if his old man backpedaled on his ideals so quickly. But as he listened to the clicking of his dress shoes against the floor, the fear and suspense those sounds gave him was absent. He wasn’t afraid anymore…. Soul was sure that he had finally found a way to fight back, other than to cause any fuss he could.

His father’s reins were off him now. He was free to do whatever he wanted.

Oh, he’d use it. He’d use it as long as he could.

—

He wasn’t being forced to go to any of the snooty rich people and classical musical parties, meetups, and recitals anymore, he’d realized in the next month, and that was yet another freeing thing he discovered after giving up the piano.

And since he didn’t have to go to those things, it was time to say goodbye to those stiff, hot and suffocating suits, and hello to the hoodies he had stuffed away in the back of his closet. Headphones in his ears, he bobbed his head as he walked past the door to the foyer, happy not to see that door as such a bad memory anymore. Now it was just another door in their too-large-for-four-people estate. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this good and confident in himself, that he was free to be who he was.

Of course, it was shortlived.

He was going out for a walk. That was the story and that was also the truth. It wasn’t like he had any friends he had met during his recitals or anything, but going outside to make some in secret seemed like a good idea. After all, his father didn’t scare him anymore. He walked past the old man, reading his newspaper on his lean-back chair. He hummed to the rock song he was currently listening to, nearly missing the sound of his father clearing his throat over it.

The weapon rolled his eyes while his father couldn’t see it, turning around shortly after as he removed his headphones, letting the music be heard to his father and not just himself. That, he would find, was a mistake, as the first disapproving glance was probably from the guitar solo that was heard as a result.

“What are you doing?” His father asked in his nicotine-ruined voice angrily after a pause. If he thought that was going to intimidate Soul Evans anymore, he was wrong.

“Going for a walk,” Soul said simply, shoving a matter-of-fact attitude into his tone. He hoped that would get his point across his old man’s mind in place of saying ‘you can’t stop me’, which wouldn’t help his situation any whatsoever.

“You remember our rules about going outside the mansion, yes?” his father commented as he returned back to his newspaper without a care in the world written on his face, dormant anger sleeping in his tone. Soul knew the rules for sure, but he wasn’t going to abide by them anymore.

“Don’t talk to anyone,” Soul counted them on his fingers, “more like don’t open your _freaky_ mouth, and don’t wander into town. Are those it?”

“Oh, son, don’t be so negative!” His father laughed out in the way that once again riled up the anger within Soul. All while not taking his eyes off of his precious article about Wes’ amazing last concert in town in the newspaper, complete with his own face behind Wes’ as the violinist shook the reporter’s hand. “No one likes being around such a downer.”

Soul turned around and took a few steps forward, all for the sake of hiding his expression as he clenched his teeth and balled up his hands. While he fought for his freedom, he still wasn’t completely free.

“Well, I don’t know,” Soul said with the same dormant anger his father used earlier as he shrugged his shoulders, “I wouldn’t be such a ‘downer’ if I was at the DWMA.”

The sound of crumpled up newspaper in his father’s hands was all he needed to know that his words had the impact that he wanted them to have.

“I thought we discussed that that school was _never_ tobe mentioned in this household again,” his father grumbled behind a shield of paper and ink, burying his head within it further, Soul assumed, from the sound of more crinkling. “That it didn’t _exist_.”

“I’m not insane, Dad. I saw Steven change his arm into a blade before my very eyes.” He turned around despite his father obviously not being willing to return his gaze personally.

“That school is out there, and I’m a rare weapon.”

Once again, the poor news was threatened to be torn apart in Big Bad Daddy Evans’ rage. Red eyes met a matching pair once again as the face they were set in threatened to turn red in anger. It had been quite a while since Soul had seen that happen -- about two weeks -- but if his dad thought he was done, then he was wrong.

“I don’t care if it’s real or ‘out there,’ no son of mine is going to _a school that sounds like something out of_ ** _a Lemony Snicket book!!_** ” he finally shouted, tearing through the paper in the process. The lovely front cover smile he had was torn apart, just leaving his body in tact. It was a good thing, too. That smile was just as fake to Soul as his father’s idea of what a good family was. And the answer to that was obvious: it wasn’t this.

“Did Wes or Steven or anyone tell you that I have a _chance_ there? I could still be known as a great Evans,” Soul explained. “Maybe not as a great pianist like you, but as a _Deathscythe._ ”

His father breathed out sharply before speaking, hands shaking as he continued to grip the newspaper. “ _If I let you go to that school and garner that kind of reputation, do you honestly think the response to that would be positive towards our family? It wouldn’t! Years of reputation as musicians down the tubes because one of our members is a FREAK!_ Death’s weapon! You’d be known for **_killing people_** , Soul. No one wants to come to the concerts of the brother of Death’s second-in-command, the person responsible for taking their dear old grandmother’s soul right out of her body, be it she’s in a better place _or not!_ ”

 ** _“OR,”_** Soul interjected, joining in on the voice raising, “it’ll be more publicity for Wes. The DWMA isn’t a _circus_ to people, it’s known throughout history for helping weapon people like me and saving the world! They’re not seen as freaks!”

“ _And what would_ ** _you_** _know, Soul Evans._ You were told everything about this school by _a stranger. A person you don’t even_ ** _know_** _._ ”

“He’s a longtime friend of Wes that you’ve let him speak to for years. He’s proved his trustworthy all that time. Wes wouldn’t be friends with a liar for that long. And how can he lie when he summoned _his own_ blade right in front of me, Wes, and mom?!”

“Many ways.” spoke Papa Evans solemnly. “Many, many ways. I shouldn’t have to teach you how many ways you can be lied to. I have many a story that would open your eyes if I shared those stories with you now. In fact, I just--.”

No. He wasn’t going to listen to this. He wasn’t going to let his dad go on a tirade of ‘when I was young’ and ‘stories of the real world.’ Not when he knew better, and he wasn’t afraid anymore.

 ** _“Even with_** Steven out of the picture, the DWMA is real,” Soul interrupted, “The Internet’s a thing. Magazines and advertisements are a thing. _They’re real,_ and pretty prestigious.”

For the first time in a long while, the glare he got from his father sent chills down his spine so powerful he shook a bit. Papa Evans breathed deep through his nose, obviously trying to calm himself down by how his face lost its red color just a tad.

 ** _“I. Don’t. Care._** If they're real,” he growled through gritted teeth. Soul glanced at the newspaper in his moment of fright, finding that his father had torn the picture of him, Wes, and the reporter in two with all of his anger and shaking. “You are _not_ going.”

“Not even if it _helps me?_ ” Soul spoke between his own nearly gritted teeth, hands balled up tight and shaking at his sides. “Not even if it gets rid of the family _freak_ for you?!”

The way he got his answer was cliche as hell. His father pulled the newspaper over his shoulder and simply shook his head, not even bothering to speak before going back and burying his face within the inked pages.

Soul’s hands shook further as the denied scythe bared his teeth once again, the sharp points clear as day towards his father if that godforsaken newspaper wasn’t in the way.

With a stomp and a pivot, he was facing the doorway once again, and he finally left to go on his walk with all the loud steps in the world out of his rage. The door was fittingly slammed shut after he stepped out onto their musically-themed welcome mat as well.

There was silence for just a short while, only a small moment before the scythe sighed and looked to his right. “I’m guessing I don’t have to ask if you heard all of that or not.”

“You’d be right about that, little brother,” said Wes from the space next to him. Thanks to not being scrutinized as much as Soul was, he was able to go outside when he pleased, and this time, he chose to wait and listen in on the father-son bickering, all on his own.

If anything, it beat being a broken record that no one was listening to like he normally was in those arguments. Still angry, he crossed his arms and slouched, teeth still out as he growled and grumbled and his nose wrinkled. A simple playful shove to his shoulder got him to knock it off, complete with Wes’ chuckling.

“I get it, you’re mad,” Wes said with a sympathetic smile. He took the first few steps of his and Soul’s agreed venture out of the estate, smile unfading as he looked back at Soul. “But that posture’s not good for you. Stand up straight.”

Wes. Wes was the only member of this family he could trust. He loved his mom and all, but after the threat Big Bad Dad made, she made no efforts to help him out. And Granny? She was on his father’s side. His father had cut all contact between them of his own accord, probably thinking that he was an embarrassment and that if he let them talk, Granny would consider Big Bad Dad a bad parent.

The sad thing was that theory was pretty sound. How far would he go to keep how he’s treated his youngest son hidden? He had already shown how far he’d go to keep it within the Evans estate. Wes had still been talking to Steven, and he had had it okayed to speak to him still just two months back. Steven’s ban didn’t last long, but that was because Wes wouldn’t dare make the family affairs public, lest he be torn to shreds like Soul was. Or, at least. That’s what Soul figured was going on.

He adjusted his stance as asked and power-walked to join his brother side by side before retreating back to his thoughts, trying to think of something, _anything_ for his way out…

“So.” Wes hummed, breaking the silence and causing Soul to gasp lightly. “Since you ticked him off enough to have him skip telling you about the wrap party for my tour, I may as well tell you that that’s in a week.”

Oh. Right. The wrap party Soul promised he’d attend when his tour started. Fucking hell, he swore to himself in his mind, here he thought he was free from suits and ties and all that bullshit.

“Do you think you’ll need that back up I offered?” Wes spoke with a kind, sympathetic and subtle glance towards him, and Soul looked up and felt his heart healing just a bit from the act.

“Yeah. I think I will. Just in case,” Soul answered, regret in his eyes as his brows lowered and his face fell further. “Are you sure this plan’s okay with you? If it goes through, I could ruin your entire wrap party. Destroy your reputation. Something, anything… I mean, if I don’t get through to him with this, then I never will, but…”

Wes laughed lightly before ruffling Soul’s hair. “Brother, do you really think I care about that? Look at us. The apple’s fallen really far from the tree with us,” he reassured the twelve-year-old, “I can earn any lost reputation back, and it’s one of many wrap parties I’ll have in my future. Besides, it’ll definitely make things interesting if worse comes to worst.” He nudged the scythe playfully.

The violinist actually got a smile out of the young ex-pianist, his heart soaring with hope. It was desperate, the plan the two of them settled on, but desperate times called for desperate measures. If Soul Evans wasn’t leaving town in two weeks, then he’d never leave.

That was how far the Evans brothers would take this war.


	5. Chapter 5

The day of the wrap party came after a week of waiting to spring their trap. It helped the weapon out to know that he wasn’t here out of obligation and that the stiff red and black suit he was in was worth the slight tightness around his neck; the fact that it was a casual wrap party instead of one of the snooty parties helped a bit as well.

He fussed with his tie when finally someone had the guts to come over. She probably didn’t even need guts, the way her cheerful face looked, and now that he had someone to talk to, the trap could be sprung.

“Hi!” spoke the girl with blonde hair and blue eyes who was probably only a year younger than him. With the way she smiled at him, pinch of guilt swung through his system. He felt bad for using her as a way to start the fight with his father, but then again, why should he feel bad? The heart of the plan was to simply be himself.

“What’s your name?” she asked him innocently, a bystander in everything to a T.

“Soul.” he replied.

“Soul?” she gasped after repeating his name. “Soul Evans?!” Her blue eyes sparkled, big and bright at the sound of his name, and it was startling to see such a thing. What did he do to her to get such a response? Was she a snooty person that got invited through a snooty person quota? Did he make a mistake for deciding to be himself to her--?

“I went to your recital a few months back! Your music is amazing!” she blurted out excitedly, and the ex-pianist was even more startled and surprised to hear such words about himself. After everything? After being so sure that he’d never hear those words attached to his name, thanks to the words from his father?

“R-... really?” Soul answered nervously, wowed beyond belief. It took a quick second to remind himself why he was here, and he cleared his throat, getting his composure back together. “Well, that’s a shame. I just recently gave up piano.”

“A-aw…! That is a shame!” the girl whined out, the brightness in her eyes fading fast. “What made you give it up? Were you just not enjoying it anymore?”

“Something like that.” He paused, trying to think of exactly what to say. Considering what his plan was to fight against his father here, he decided to go out with a bang. Time to be completely honest. “My dad was taking the fun out of it for me. Not letting me play what I wanted to.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, but then her expression hardened. “Oh. I’m… sorry to hear that. Anything I can do?”

The weapon ignored the voice in the back of his mind that wanted to scream ‘boycott Wes’ concerts.’ The weapon chose to shrug instead of dragging his brother down.

“Just the fact that you liked my music back when I did it was enough. Thank you,” Soul said honestly before giving the girl a smile.

She smiled back at him and shook his hand before walking off. Little did Soul know how much such a little interaction would work for his cause.

The girl spread the news faster than anything else could have. Whispers took over the wrap party within the hour, and any curious glances that would come his way were soon instead looks of sadness and pity. It confused him, but when he finally heard one of the whispers, it had done exactly what he wanted it to.

_“That’s Soul. Wes’ brother who stopped playing because of his father controlling him.”_

He had a hard time containing his grin from that. He had won this war before the final bomb went off. He was sure of it.

He was honestly surprised at the power of the rumor mill. It only took an hour or so for that to get around as much as he wanted it to. With his smile on his face, probably a mistake, he helped himself to some punch, and his joyous atmosphere was once again ruined. Click clack click clack click click **_clack_**.

For once, he had no idea who those dress shoes belonged to, turning to his left to be sent into a sudden spike of fear.

His father’s face was as red as ever, teeth bared and eyes about to pop out of his head as he was balled up in his anger, back hunched as he power-walked over to his youngest son. If he were in a cartoon, he was sure steam would be coming out of his ears, or his head would become a boat or a train whistle in all of it’s loud glory. If this were a cartoon, he’d be running away with all of the sound effects befitting of such an action, but it wasn’t. His legs froze, and his red eyes shook. What on earth has he done? Was he going to survive this?

He was dragged by the collar of his suit, causing him to gag loudly as it knocked the air out of his windpipe. His father loosened his grip, not because his son nearly choked from the sudden tug, but because the noise caused people to stare. Of course. Of freaking course. The action made his anger bubble up further, and Soul was reminded of how far he had come. His father had nothing on him anymore. If he did anything now, like he had just did, it would just fuel the growing rumor that he was abused. It wasn’t too far from the truth at this point.

They entered a hallway outside of the room where the main festivities were taking place, and Soul was let go with such force that his back was thrust against the hallway’s wall.

As he hissed from the pain, his father put his arms on either side of his body, towering over him as his face was as red as a traffic light. There was no escape, and fear rippled through him as he reminded himself what the entire point of this was. He wasn’t going to be scared. He wasn’t going to let this get to him. He let his face transform from fear to all the anger he held within him. He was going to win this.

His father breathed in through his teeth. “I’ve had. Enough. Of your lip, Soul Evans. You can embarrass me at home, you can be a freeloader to your family’s wealth all you like, but you do **_NOT_** embarrass me and your brother in public by convincing a little girl you’re ‘abused.’ You are **_not_** abused. Everything in your current situation you’ve brought upon _yourself._ ”

“Then what the hell do you call this?!” Soul asked sternly, staring his father in the eyes with only a small spark of fear within him. His father’s face contorted, as if he were transforming into some kind of monster. Why did Soul have the teeth of a shark? With the way his father was looking, his teeth would look much better on him right then.

 ** _“Punishment,”_** his father hissed again, voice bubbling and growling with more and more anger after every passing second and phrase from Soul’s lips. “You’ve signed me up for damage control, boy. You realize that, right? As soon as this rumor gets out into the streets, you’ll be under lock and key while I assure the media I am **_not_** abusing my son.”

“Hm. Let’s see,” Soul grumbled out with his own rage behind his words, “you’ve told me my beliefs are ‘hogwash’ and garbage my music teachers brainwashed me with, told me my personal compositions are ‘horrifying’ and that no one would like them, locked away almost everything about myself by putting me down and teaching me to see myself as the FAMILY **FREAK** …. Hate to break it to you, but _THAT. IS. ABUSE!_ And I’m not gonna sit and take it anymore!”

His father pulled one of his arms away from the wall in his rage and pulled it back, a growl boiling from his throat. Soul wasn’t stupid. His power to win this war between his father diminished as he shrunk back and cringed, waiting for the slap that was coming without a doubt --

“I-- **_WHAT IN THE WORLD IS GOING ON HERE?!_** ” A quirky voice blurted out from behind them, causing their attention to shift back to the door. Apparently Papa Evans had left it open, at least just a crack, or didn’t shut it properly, which was perfect for Wes and Steven and the mirror they were both helping to hold and carry with them. Inside the mirror’s reflection was… a cartoony black figure with a cartoony skull mask to match. Was that…?

Soul Evans’ legs gave out. Against the fear, the confusion, the hurt of the fact that his father was about to _hit him_ … That had to be him, the Grim Reaper himself inside the mirror. He laughed a little to himself, talk about not being true to the legends whatsoever. He wasn’t scary at all! He was like… something out of a kids show. And the white face his father now had in the presence of such an odd authority figure made him laugh even more.

As he sat there on the floor of the hallway, bent over as he held his head, Wes’ voice reached his ears, “Hold the mirror a second.”

Then, it was fast footsteps before red eyes met the only eyes like his own Soul enjoyed looking into. His brother, his talented, amazing brother, helped him stand and gave him a sympathetic smile.

“Told you I’d give you some back up.”

\--

To say the wrap party ended well would be a lie, and to say it ended terribly would be close to not being an understatement, but enough to be one. It surprised Soul, really, how Wes didn’t really seem to care about how his wrap party ended; he just wanted his brother happy.

He’d be happy, thanks to what Wes and Steven did. Eventually.

Soul knew without a doubt that he understood the phrase “things will only get worse before they get better” now. For he had lived it. Every single inch of it.

It had been a small amount of time since the wrap party, only about a week, and his room was empty. Nothing but a bed with no sheets or blankets and picture hangers in place of photos he once had up on display. Once again he sat on his bed, thinking; petrified with how much his life was changing in an instant.

Soul Evans had won. He was going to the DWMA, but like most wars, it didn’t end happily. He wasn’t just going, he was being _taken._ Lord Death, horrified to find out that such a young weapon with great potential was being kept in such a bad environment had taken things into his own hands. He was taking him, and his father had lost the battle the second he tried to involve child services. Child services not only agreed with the evidence Wes, Steven, and Lord Death presented, but mentioned how Lord Death was one of the world’s great defenders against all things paranormal and supernatural. They would trust him over some crazy old music man any day.

His father, however? Well. He didn’t take that well. In response to it he made it very clear that Soul was no longer a member of the Evans family. He was disowned from now on. For most in this situation, it would be relieving to be disowned from a family that you were such a black sheep in, but the problem was that young Soul was just 12 years old, on the cusp of being 13 as October reared it’s head, and he officially had no family anymore -- or at least not a father.

A knock at his bedroom door shook him out of his thoughts, and Wes let himself in. Same as always, he had his sympathetic smile; the smile that always made things just a little bit better.

“Hey,” he spoke as he walked on in, “You wanted to talk to me?”

Soul didn’t answer him for a fair while, only staring at him before he scooched over and let his brother sit besides him.

He sat next to him, but he didn’t push the conversation further. He waited ever so patiently in the silence until Soul found his words. Everything Soul owned was packed away, either in storage or going with him, (Next to nothing was going with him. Bad memories n’ all,) so true silence filled the air until the younger brother spoke.

“... How.”

“How what?” Wes asked patiently, no shouting, no laughing, just understanding. Why couldn’t this entire family be like this?

“How did you get Lord Death to help out? And why was he in a mirror?” Soul asked meekly.

“Eh,” Wes grunted as he shrugged, “Steven’s not even sure. Something about not being able to leave the Academy. We got him to help out regardless, because of some magic mirror phone number.”

Soul of all people looked at Wes like he had just grown two heads after that statement, and the violinist had to chuckle.

“Yeah. I know. You’ll figure it out when you get there.”

The conversation was short lived, but it was enough. The weapon sighed and sat in further silence with his brother. He was starting to feel pretty stupid for ever being jealous of him. Being in their dad’s good graces was probably just as much of a curse as being his freakshow kid was. Who was Soul to know what struggles Wes went through? But now he had a thought on his mind.

“Why aren’t you going with?” he asked quietly, “Dad’s just as mean to you in his own way, so shouldn’t you leave the house, too?”

“I’m almost 18, Soul,” Wes spoke with a laugh, “I can make my own decisions, and Dad might be controlling, yeah, but I can use that to my advantage.”

“So,” Soul hummed, “you have your own escape plan?”

“I do,” his older brother nodded, “I’m going to ride on my dad’s coat tails until I can’t anymore, and then branch off with my fame and such on my own.”

The weapon said nothing to his sibling, looking at him with red eyes filled with sadness, sympathy, and worry that apparently just begged for a hug, because that’s what Soul got.

“Don’t worry. I’ll follow your path, brother. I’ll be just fine,” Wes reassured him in a way that put a nice dent in his heart. Worry and the echo of tugged heartstrings made Soul consider returning the hug, but the sound of a car parking outside made Wes pull away before he had the chance.

“Looks like your ride is here,” Wes spoke calmly, with the same smile as ever. Was there a bit of pride in his eyes…? “Go get ‘em, Soul.”

The fact that it was time for him to leave took a bit to process in his scattered and overstimulated brain, and when it did, he chuckled and smiled the best he could to his big brother.

After jumping off of the bed that was no longer his, and that would probably be thrown away or donated after he was gone, Soul threw a rucksack over his shoulder and opened his bedroom door for the last time.

This was it. He was going to a place full of freaks like him. No more ridicule. No more keeping his mouth shut, but his heart twinged in pain just before he decided to look back; he was treated to a genuinely proud smile from Wes. The closest he’d ever get to a Proud Papa Smile was a Proud Older Bro Smile, and Soul was sure he would’ve cried if he wasn’t already emotionally drained.

“... Bye, Wes,” he muttered, “... Thanks for everything.”

“See ya, Soul. Kick some ass out there,” were the last words Soul would hear Wes Evans say, not for a very long time.

With those words, the scythe was off. Walking down the hallway with shoulders that couldn’t make up their mind whether they wanted to be free of their weight or not. So many things had happened over his own choices that his mental state was still trying to recover.

Just as he was near the halfway point of the hallway, a doorway opened, his mother coming out from the room within. She turned to her son to see him with his rucksack, and Soul was sure she couldn’t help her smile. With tearful eyes, he had more weight and troubles to think about as she hugged him and said nothing more before letting him go. Was his mom going to be fine after all this…? He hoped so.

Once he cleared two hallways, he was almost free. Smiling as he saw the front door to the estate, one of their servants holding the door open and an airport shuttle outside waiting for him, complete with Steven holding a mirror with Lord Death inside. Was this that important to Lord Death that he wanted to see him leave? The thought only made his smile grow. He was definitely going to some place where he belonged then, if that was the case. Not that he had any doubts.

He was nearly there. Just a few steps from being free, and--

“Not so fast, Soul,” the cigar-saturated voice of his father uttered from behind a shield of newspaper. Not out of obedience, but a spike of fear through his system, Soul stopped. His face tightened in his fright as it seemed like time had stopped slightly. Just for the two of them. If there was one thing Soul had learned from all this, however, it was that his father -- the pianist who had wanted to be a famous composer that ended up being swindled into thinking the hired pianist was the _only_ path for a pianist -- was no one to be afraid of. He pivoted and gave his attention to his father one last time.

Once Soul’s attention was on him, he pulled the newspaper shield away. The most disappointed and angry and defeated glances were what awaited the weapon once it was gone. “If you think I’m going to tell you anything positive, you are sadly mistaken,” he spoke. Soul couldn’t help but laugh.

“I wouldn’t ever expect that from you. Sorry,” he answered back, not hiding anything anymore. Far as he was concerned? He wasn’t out the door yet, but he was still a free bird.

His father’s glared at him for his out of turn and improper comment, but as the wrinkles around his mouth grew more vivid, he calmed himself enough and he went back to his newspaper.

“I was merely going to tell you that you need to invest in the DWMA’s stage name program. Is that what it’s called?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Why? It’s very simple, Soul,” he said before removing the newspaper from his face, a gossip article about Soul’s ‘rumor’ on the front cover, “ ** _You are no son of mine._** ”

Soul’s heart froze and turned to ice with those words, feeling the last of whatever attachment he had to his father that made him afraid or hurt to take the steps he needed die a painful, cold death.

“ _You do not have the right to bear the Evans name,”_ his father asserted, standing up and still glaring daggers into his son. “I forbid you to keep it. _You are not deserving of it._ ”

The small part of Soul that was dying wanted to cry, to regret what he had done, but he warmed the frozen part of himself with anger and spite, and for the last time, he fought back.

“Fine. If you don’t want me, then I don’t want you, either,” he asserted as he turned his back on his father, continuing his walk out of his prison. “I’m not your son? Then you’re not my father.”

“Hm.” his father hummed before laughing, “I think that’s the first thing we ever agreed on.”

With those words, finally the iced over part of Soul passed on, and with heavier shoulders than ever, he walked out of the estate and towards the airport shuttle.

It was official. He was really disowned, and the feeling was mutual. He hated the guy, so to Soul it didn’t make much sense why his chest hurt and his shoulders stayed weighed down. Trying to find the answer left him looking at his farewells from his mom and Wes as if he’d never see them again. He figured he was onto something. With his mother still married to that bastard, and Wes still living with said bastard, he probably _wouldn’t_ see them again.

Wounds of jealousy reopened, and suddenly, that was just fine with him. Wes would be the son that bastard would always pamper and love, and he’d get twice as much of it now because ‘what second son? I don’t have a second son! What’re you talking about?’

That was enough to make him hang his head low in front of Lord Death and Steven the Mirror Holding Battle Axe and forget they were even there. At least until Lord Death made himself known.

“Hrrrmmm~?” he hummed, tearing the scythe away from his little world with the springing sound effect that accompanied him leaning to the left. “Is everything okay, Soul~?”

“What--?” Soul sputtered before his mind caught up with him, “Oh. Y-yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine. Nothing’s wrong here. Cool scythe, ready to go to his new cool school. Y’know?”

Lord Death hesitated on answering him for just enough time to make Soul incredibly nervous, but before it could settle in and torment him, he sprung up again with a cheerful cry.

“That’s the spirit!! Now, I wish I could stay on call with you, but as the head administrator of this school I’ve got _lots_ of work to do and I need to get back to it!” He rambled as he bounced. The way he acted made Soul feel like he was younger than he actually was, but at the same time, it was reassuring. Not so much patronizing as it was… soothing. This guy was so upbeat when he was the god of _death._ If this was how Death City was all the time, with that kind of irony, then he’d fit right in. It was helping his wounds heal already. “Steven will be on your plane ride with you as your companion, so you don’t feel sad or lonely! Got it~? Don’t be afraid to speak to him!”

“R-.. right. I got it. Thanks.”

“Alrighty then! Are you ready for your journey to your new home, Soul Evans?!” Lord Death cheerfully called as he bounced more, but with his teeth bared, an angry outburst from Soul ruined the mood.

**_“Don’t call me that.”_ **

Steven raised an eyebrow and moved his head out from behind the mirror, and Lord Death stopped mid-jump instantly. Setting himself right, he bent down and waited for Soul to speak. After a short moment, he said nothing, so the Grim Reaper took things into his own hands.

“Hrm,” he hummed once again, “So you don’t want to be called by your family name anymore?”

The scythe looked over his shoulder, both away from the estate and the Grim Reaper.

“... Something like that.”

“Ahhh,” Lord Death replied simply before going on another tangent. “Well! Just to remind you, at our academy we’ve got a stage name program that’ll help you out on your hunt for souls~!”

Okay, something about that phrase didn’t seem right.

“Wait. _What--?_ ”

“See you thereeeee~!!” Lord Death sang just before the mirror cut off. Soul placed his hand on the mirror just as the picture blipped away just like he was talking to him on an old TV, and sighed once he realized he was honestly gone.

Hang on. He wasn’t alone still, he had another weapon to talk to. Tilting his head towards Steven as he put the mirror away in his luggage, he decided that Steven was as good a person as Lord Death to ask to about that ‘hunting souls’ sentence.

“Did he just say we’ll be hunting souls?”

Steven looked down at his younger weapon counterpart and let out a little chuckle at such a question.

“Yeah?” he answered. “Kid, you’ve got shark teeth, red eyes and white hair, and you’re going to a school where the Grim Reaper’s the headmaster. Are you seriously gonna back down now because you’re hunting the souls of demons for a living?”

Steven had a point, Soul thought as he let the idea process in his head. At least it wasn’t the souls of other innocent people. _Demons._ They were a thing, too.

“Besides, you’ll get used to it. I think you’ll like their taste.” Steven mumbled as he put his and Soul’s luggage into the airport shuttle. Their taste…? They… eat them?

If it wasn’t for his mind already being exhausted, the tiny scythe would probably have been questioning his sanity just then, but anything was better than the Evans estate, and the DWMA was highly trusted. What could go wrong? He’d just have to get used to his new life as Soul the soul eater.

Hm. There was a certain ring to that, he pondered as he got aboard the shuttle.

\--

His day had been eventful. _Very_ eventful. After Soul’s flight, the wonders of Death City never seemed to cease. While people with teeth like his seemed few and far between, he saw about 3 weapons transform on his way to the school. Apparently there would be more info there, or something. Following Steven, the scythe recognized that there were people with eyes colored like his, or different enough for it to make all the difference. Eyes that were neon green, royal blue. He could swear he saw a girl with _pink hair_ just a few blocks back! The sights of the town itself were amazing as well. If it wasn’t for Steven being in the corner of his eye at all times as he looked around, Soul would’ve very well had gotten himself lost.

This may be a fever dream or some hallucination, but he had never felt more at home.

He ended up knocking his head into Steven’s back by getting too focused on watching a lantern girl fly away with her flames over to his left, and he would soon find out why.

Stairs. Lots. And lots. Of _stairs._ He was sweating already just by looking at them, and yet…

“Well,” said Steven, making him look up, “you ready?”

 _No_. No, he was not ready, yet Steven took off up the stairs like it was nothing. Like he was seeing it as a challenge more than a death wish. Soul, on the other hand, knew himself better than that. After venting out his misfortune in a whiny groan, the scythe took a deep breath and worked his way up the stairs.

He stopped and he continued, paused and kept going many a time, but eventually, he made it up the DWMA’s record breaking staircase, and when he turned around to scream at the top of his lungs that he did it, he was stopped by the sight before him.

_“Whoa.”_

Hia fatigue vanished once he was face to face with the perfect sight of all of Death City’s rooftops below. Purple mostly, but many other colors painted the picture of his new home before him, and it felt like his chains were finally gone. The weight on his shoulders was no longer buckled down, and he was finally free.

This was it. This was the start of his new life, as some yet-to-be-named soul eating scythe boy.

And it all started with a sigh. Not a sad sigh by any stretch, but a quick, relieving sigh as he stood on top of the world. Or at least that’s what it felt like after the climb, metaphorically and literally, to get here.   
  
With a deep breath through his nose, he felt the tension he once had bubble into his lungs like some sort of purifying magic, where it was really just inhaling. He never thought something so simple would make the weight on his shoulders vanish so calmly; almost instantly.  
  
And then, his sigh.   
  
And then it was all behind him.

He didn’t care that he lost his tour guide for right now, all he was focused on was taking in the wind and the sight below, and enjoying the fact that he was home.

It was short lived, however, with the sounds of quick footsteps making their way up the stairs.

“Hm?” Soul hummed as he looked down and around to see where they were coming from, and he found a blond-haired girl, hair in pigtails, with a black cloak creating a trail behind her.

… Was she wearing metal boots?

The second she got to the semi-last stair, she decided to clear the stair entirely with a little jump, throwing her fists in the air and cheering after she managed it, before catching her breath and turning around to look at the stairs below.

“St--.. Still gotta get used to it,” she breathed out, just before her green eyes locked onto his red ones. Her eyes were so interesting. He could hardly see her pupils. “Hm?”

At her hum, he realized his mouth had been hanging open the whole time. _Not cool_. He quickly stammered and rushed to fix it, wiping his mouth as he shut it before putting his hands in his pants’ pockets. He had to keep his gaze away from her, at least for just… a few… seconds…

… Well, it was harder for him to do that when he realized she was staring at him.

“What?” he asked her as he tried to make his voice sound deeper than normal. God, he didn’t want to look like an idiot…

“Oh, I’ve just--...” she stammered, “... I’ve never seen you around Death City before, that’s all. Are you new?”

“... Y-... yeah. Just… moved here. I’m an… exchange student, I guess?” He wasn’t expecting her to gasp as a response to being a student.

“Really?!” she enthusiastically shouted, “Weapon or meister?!”

“Uh. Weapon..?”

“Great! You came just in time! We’re about to assign new partners!” she continued excitedly before blinking and calming herself down “Oh!

“I’m Maka,” she said as she offered her hand out to him, “I’m a meister. It’s nice to meet you, uh…”

“... Soul,” he answered as he took her hand into his own and shook it, “Soul Eater.”

“ _Soul Eater?_ That’s a pretty redundant name!” She giggled. He crossed his arms and glared.

“Well I like it. S’not like it’s final yet. I kind of lost my tour guide.”

“Any idea where you were headed? I could help you out!” Maka offered with a smile.

“Uh… I was going to see Lord Death? I’m not even enrolled yet.”

“Oh, the Death Room! I know where that is! Follow me!”

And as quickly as she had entered his life, she ran towards the school. Soul didn’t follow her right away, a thought crossing his mind.

He had never done that before. Talking to a stranger like that in a whole new town, where he expected he’d be living on his own. That would be what he’d like better, anyway, considering that he had enough of family matters and such. No foster family for him.

… He was twelve. Almost 13. He was going to be living on his own.

He must’ve been out of his mind to jump for this with that in mind, but… it would be okay.

He was home. _Soul Eater_ was home, and he’d be just fine.

“C’mon, Soul! Let’s get going!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming! _Jeez_ , are you always so _naggy…?!_ ” He groaned, sparking a fight between them, the first of many. As he walked through the halls of the school behind her, seeing many a weapon and meister around his age, he was reassured. He obviously wasn’t alone in his endeavors for a new life.

Adjusting to a new life as Soul Eater, a DWMA student, would be hard, but he’d figure it all out. After all, if he wasn’t out of his mind yet, then who’s to say he’d ever be?

\--

 


End file.
